Regina.
year. 1942
city. Kraków
From the journal of Regina X, age 26
Bison Grass
One green strand rises tall in the bottle
Drowning in liquid
But maintaining its posture
Sometimes I wonder how the bison grass felt
Being ripped from its soil
Its roots broken
Its past gone
Often I stare at this forest green fiber
I try to fathom how it could possibly still stand
Submerged in vodka
Slowly deteriorating with each sip I take
But we all know the bison grass
Is what marks our vodka “strong”
A symbol of Poland
When our country was its own
I remember the bison grass each day that I hear
A remark from a man
“You don’t belong here”
A miner, a mother, a breadwinner, a woman
I cannot remember who I am
I’m drowning in liquid
Just like the bison grass
Torn from my roots
Expected to swim in poisonous fluid.
year. 1966
city. Pittsburgh
From the journal of Regina X, age 50
Mother Tongue
I tend to prefer my existence unseen,
Evading piercing stares
Keeping my mind to myself.
In the mines I was a speck
Of dust in a grey cloud.
I was a piece of grass
Inseparable from the rest.
But here I am seen
The inverse of my goal.
My mother tongue sticks out
Marking me “other.”
I met a kind Polish man at the age of nineteen
At the Polka club he proposed to me.
He walks seven miles to work each day
A gentle man that never complains.
I birthed six children who speak another tongue
They are heckled for their heritage
And for their strange, quiet mom.
They speak to me seldom
For they want to forget
The first language I taught them
And slowly they have.
My children and I exchange few words
The few we use together
The few we speak in common.
The ones I love bury me under their shame
I am unseen.
The ones I fear are distracted by my differences
I wish I were unseen.
Click below to unravel the inspiration behind this character!